


Don't Keel Over Now

by rubycrowned



Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Stymshaw - Freeform, Suicide, TW: Suicide, death!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you took the call how could you know that he’d slipped away last night. And you wish you’d went home, days ago, to say goodbye or just hello.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Keel Over Now

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: HIIII :))) I haven't died. I got through exams (and passed - fuck yeah half a doctor). And I've been writing this since I started studying tbh, and it kind of started with the dumbest song ever, 'This Isn't Everything You Are' by Snow Patrol (honestly, them or The Fray will be the death of me with their dumb songs and dumb lyrics). And then it turned to this ginormous bloody /monster/ of over 20k words, which officially makes it the longest oneshot i've ever written (woo!)
> 
> Secondly: Yeah ok, this is death!fic. Soz bout it. There are at least two more on the horizon too jsyk...but basically sorry in advance - it'd be a good time to go grab some tissues and chocolate right about now before you get too comfy.
> 
> Thirdly: THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MY WONDERFUL ANGELS ARI AND BELLA. For being my fangirls when I was having doubts and slow writing weeks and just being amazing, especially when they've been so busy themselves. And extra special thanks to Bella for having sat down and helped me do a final edit of the whole fucking beast today. Love you both <333

The lights pulse vibrant reds and yellows, staining the sweat-glistening skin of the bodies pressed up against Harry with alien colours as they sway to the beat; the steady rhythm pounds in his brain and rids him of the thoughts which he doesn’t want to – can't – deal with right now.

Or at least, he tells himself the thoughts are gone. Maybe it's just the alcohol thrumming through his veins, deadening the screaming voices to a dull roar.

He's nicely buzzed, loose limbed and on his way to that place where he’s numbed and won’t have to pretend anymore. The girl grinding her tiny hips and ample breasts against him is unfamiliar and distracting, trailing light fingers up and down Harry’s arms as they move. It is nice, he tells himself. Healthy and normal and expected even, for a nineteen year old boy to go out and have fun; flirt and dance and drink and to not pull away when a girl with no name wraps her arms around his waist and slides her hands down until they're grasping firmly onto Harry's arse, smiling up at him through her eyelashes.

When a hand squeezes his shoulder and Nick nods his head towards the exit, Harry leaves her easily enough, disentangling her arms and dismissing her pout with a lopsided grin; chances are it'd be all over the papers that they’d gotten together anyway, but looking for a quick fuck was never why Harry went out.

And when Harry wakes the next morning, tongue swollen and rough in his mouth, wearing last night’s shirt, a single sock and not much else, to find the other side of the bed still empty, it isn't a surprise. It's becoming a far too familiar pattern.

He sighs heavily and tries to will his life back two years.

Strains his ears in the hopes that he’ll hear utensils clattering in the kitchen, or shitty daytime TV coming from the lounge. Tries not to feel disappointed when he’s met only with silence.

And so it repeats.

***

It hadn't been something violent and dramatic which broke them. Sometimes Harry wasn't even sure that broken was how you’d describe what they were. Broken requires force, effort. They were worn out; worn down until they were hollow and brittle and almost translucent where once they were strong and impenetrable.

And it wasn't really anyone's fault either. Or maybe it was all of their faults, accumulating until it had created its own momentum and it was impossible to stop it anymore.

It doesn't really matter who, or why, or how; not when it comes down to it, Harry thinks.

It doesn't matter why Louis has withdrawn into himself in a way which would have been completely foreign to Harry up until six months ago. Why he hides in his room or curls up on the couch, absorbed in nothing; or behind a forced smile and clenched teeth, hands tapping restlessly at his sides.

It doesn't matter why Harry goes out more and more often, trying to escape the silence and the way Louis can't seem to look him in the eye anymore. Or why he drinks and dances and teases endlessly but never ever touches.

It doesn't matter why the other boys seem to tiptoe around them these days, sharing significant looks and treating them like the glass Harry thinks maybe they’ve become.

It doesn't matter why, some days, the silence is broken by thunder claps, words (screams) bleeding from old wounds and jagged scars. Old arguments designed to hurt and new lashes leaving their own scorching brands.

And it doesn't matter why, some nights, after and despite and maybe because of everything, they crash back together once more. It doesn't matter how every touch might be just as searing, as maiming as the verbal assaults. And it doesn't matter how those same touches still, against all reason, manage to provide a salve, soothing the burns for at least the moment; healing them just enough to hide the gaping holes.

What matters is that they do.

That it does.

And somehow those moments have to be enough to counteract the rest.

It's what Harry clings to.

***

Nick doesn't usually question when Harry comes round, smile just a little _too_ bright for Nick’s liking - just a bit too close to the axe-wielding clown that may or may not haunt his dreams on occasion – and barges his way through the door declaring loudly that they’re going out so _hurry up and put some trousers on Grimmy_.

It's not as though days like that happen often, the ones where Harry comes round like a storm about to hit disguised as a summer breeze (not the murderous Bobo the clown); usually they’ll meet up after Nick finishes the breakfast show or before someone's gig or party or spontaneous 'we need to get drunk… _now_ ' gathering. They have a laugh, share some food, down some booze and generally rib the shit out of each other.

On the other occasions, they do much the same. But instead of a little alcohol it's a lot (alright maybe it's always a lot but there's that-was-fucking-great-I-don't-remember-any-of-it a lot and then there's I-can't-feel-my-face-but-that-pit-is-still-aching-so-hand-me-that-next-bottle-of-vodka a lot). And instead of a large group of their friends going and letting off some steam (because Harry is well and truly inducted into Nick’s circle now; he’s pretty sure half of them only keep Nick around still for the curly haired bastard) it's more often than not just the two of them. 

And by the two of them it means Harry surrounded by a throng of writhing bodies while Nick watches on, feeling every inch the parental chaperone as he observes the way Harry's head flops out of time to the beat. When it all gets a bit much (for Harry's own good of course, never anything to do with the roiling feeling in Nick's gut as he watches the needy hands which grope at his torso, moving further down if they’re plucky) Nick will pull Harry out, never a fuss to be made, and they’ll slide into the back seat of a discrete vehicle which will either drop Nick off at his before taking Harry home, or take them both straight to Nick’s. And the next morning Nick will insist that Harry make him breakfast as payback for being such an "'orrible friend you are, making a bloke stand idly by protecting your honour and all that rather than getting a gobby in the bathroom stalls."

Nick never presses for the reason Harry turns up; it's not as though he doesn't know. It’s been the same issue for most of the time Nick’s known him. And if the frequency of these visits has perhaps increased lately, well, Nick can only hope that one day Harry will tell him. Or one of the lads. Or Anne, or Lou - pretty much anyone is probably more qualified to be giving advice than he is, if Nick’s being honest.

But that doesn’t stop him from wanting to take Harry by the shoulders and explain to him that he is so much than that; that he can’t let himself be defined – can’t define himself – by anyone else. Not even a person he loves.

Because Harry is incredible, that much Nick knows; all by himself and regardless of anything else around him. He’s indescribable and irrepressible and- yeah, Nick will always be here, as long as Harry will let him.

Trying to make him see that.

***

The night Harry turns up drenched to the bone, wearing only a t-shirt and jeans in the frigid weather, it's different to the other times. Maybe it's the bag slung over his shoulder or the way he doesn't barge in as per usual but stands there waiting to be let in. But maybe it's the complete absence of a smile on Harry’s face which concerns Nick, the way his green eyes look so big and round and frightened as they stare up at him and make him look every bit of his young nineteen years.

A little surprisingly perhaps, they still get trashed that night. 

A little less surprisingly, once they get started, Harry shows no sign of slowing down, making sure Nick matches him drink for drink. There’s a nagging voice in the back of Nick’s mind which seems certain that Nick’s going to regret this in the morning, possibly even later tonight, but Nick doesn’t really see how that’s much different to a lot of the rest of his day-to-day life so he shuts it up with another shot of vodka.

And when they finally get to the namelessly generic club, potentially not as low-key as it could be, Harry seems to be breaking his self-enforced rules quite brilliantly. He waits just long enough to throw back another drink with Nick at the bar before forging the throng of writhing bodies on the main floor. And Nick gives him some space, dances with a few randoms, feeling the alcohol burning through his blood and painting everything with a nice fuzzy edge. But he still catches sight of Harry every now and again, each time attached at the waist (and at least twice by the mouth) to a different girl.

Harry might be young, but he’s big and ugly enough to make his own decisions. Or at least that’s what Nick tells himself, trying to focus on the tanned blonde currently smirking at him from over at the bar – just the model-type he has most definitely not had enough of in the past few Styles-filled months. They have seriously spent an insane amount of time in each company since, well probably last summer, only interrupted when Harry has to leave on tour – some weeks it’s almost like they live together and when Harry’s gone, Nick’s apartment feels strangely empty…and Nick is definitely not drunk enough to be having these thoughts.

Nick’s decision to leave Harry be and work through his shit in whatever misguided attempt he chooses is abandoned right about the time Harry begins grinding up on a muscular brunette who’s probably in his mid-twenties. It’s the ‘his’ that does it really; Nick obviously isn’t about to start judging, as hypocritical as he knows he can be at times, but they really are in quite a public place, one of the places where everyone would know exactly who Harry was and would have no qualms with selling a few sneaky pics to The Sun before they could even leave the club. And Nick’s still holding onto enough sobriety to recognise that that is not the ideal scenario for Harry to wake up to after sleeping off what is sure to be the mother of all hangovers.

He gives the blonde (Jake? Jared?) a sad smile goodbye as he stands and forces his way through the crowd of dancers to Harry and nudges him in the side until he’s almost sure that Harry’s glazed gaze is focused on him.

“C’mon, popstar; time to head, yeah?” he not-quite-yells over the music into Harry’s ear, ignoring the dirty look from the guy still stood behind Harry.

He’s almost prepared for a fight, for tonight to be the night Harry refuses because, really, what could Nick do – they usually manage to avoid bringing any of Harry’s security on nights out now, barely managing to satisfy his handlers or whoever by using drivers to get to and from town – but Harry looked behind him to the bloke and back to Nick, then shrugged and leaned into Nick’s side. He was sweaty and heavy – the great lump – but compliant enough as Nick steadied them both and tried to direct them in a mostly straight line in the direction of the side door.

Harry’s quiet on the ride back, staring out the window on his side of the car, even as Nick tries to clumsily poke a smile out of him.

His smile isn’t something Nick’s seen much of tonight, he doesn’t think. Not a real one. There had been flirtatious smirks and drunken leering at the people dancing up against him in the club. But the conspicuous absence of what is usually an easy smile – even on Harry’s rough nights – is something that strikes even Nick’s foggy brain as unusual. Wrong.

And it’s about halfway up the steps to Nick’s door that he realises that tears are streaming down his…his friend’s face (because your heart always clenches like that when you see a friend in pain, right? Like his heart’s a piping bag and someone’s trying to squeeze the last of the icing out…shit Nick needs to stop watching so much Food Network). Harry’s silent still, but his face has completely crumpled in on itself and Nick feels like an utter tool, only just having noticed. He bundles Harry inside and pulls him into his arms as they fall gracelessly onto the sofa; it seems to be all it takes for Harry to break completely, sucking in a sob.

And shit. Because the thing with being so trusting, with wearing your heart in your eyes – with being Harry – is that you’re liable to get broken. And broken is what Nick sees when he meets the shadows of Harry’s face in the dim light (Nick may have forgotten certain things like light switches in his efforts to get them through the door). The lights from outside are just enough for Nick to see the reflection of swimming eyes – barely able to flicker up and meet Nick’s before dropping behind eyelashes again – and tear tracks staining his cheeks. 

Nick is utterly lost in situations like this; he’s survived thus far by trying to grow up as slowly and with as little responsibility as possible, while still maintaining some sort of façade as leading a functional adult life. That tends to make him a hilarious friend, a stellar wingman and not a bad shag if he does say so himself, but ill equipped for troubled teenage popstars steadily saturating his shirt at two in the morning.

He does his best, tucks Harry underneath his chin and rubs his hand in patterns over his back – soothing circles and tracing the knobs of his spine as Harry curls half into Nick’s lap. It’s almost as though just the act of releasing his pent up emotions is enough for him to start calming once more, much to Nick’s relief. It only takes a couple minutes of them sitting without speaking, Nick listening to the hitches in breath which shake Harry’s body, before he’s quieted to sniffles, clutching to Nick’s shirt sleepily more than with the desperation his grip had held earlier.

And maybe it’s not the wisest move he’s ever made but Nick’s been wondering for weeks, months probably, and after tonight he just, he needs to _understand_. So he speaks into the silence, which has finally become comfortable.

“Does it- is he really worth all this?”

He doesn’t need to elaborate, they both know what Nick’s talking about, even half-pickled (hell, even half-dead, they could probably figure it out).

Harry stills, holding his breath beneath Nick’s hand on his back. And Nick’s still can’t help but think, as the pause between question and answer drags out between them, shouldn’t this be easy? Simple. _Yes_. Because if it wasn’t, if Louis wasn’t worth all this hiding and heartache and _pain_ , then what were they doing? Why was Harry here in his arms and Louis god knows where and Nick. Why was Nick stuck holding together the pieces of Harry and left feeling like he was doing a less than adequate job?

And the response is slow and quiet, sounding like its taking all the effort and concentration available to him, but Harry does eventually speak into Nick’s chest, as if it holds all the answers and safety he could ever need.

“I want to say…but I, I don’t think I know anymore.”

And this time it’s Nick’s turn to have his breath catch, but he tries to cover it with a sigh, suddenly unsure that this is a conversation he really wants to be having after all. Not now, not like this. So he shuffles Harry into more of a sitting position and murmurs into his hair fondly, “Now then, superstar. I think it’s well time for bed, yeah?”

He struggles to clamber up from the sofa, half dragging Harry with him, and dropping him onto his bed when they reach Nick’s room. He staggers off to find two large glasses of water and a pack of aspirin that they’ll doubtless need come morning. When he returns he finds clothes strewn off one side of the bed and Harry already under the covers; Nick strips down to his boxers and moves to follow suit.

He has the forethought to turn the light off before he gets into bed, but not enough to turn on his bedside lamp first, and manages to trip over a shoe that Nick’s determined to blame on Harry and winds up falling onto the bed, managing to connect an elbow with what he thinks is Harry’s knee; he’s extremely grateful for the padding the blankets provide.

Harry groans a little but just pushes at Nick’s shoulder and tries to push the sheets down a bit, presumably a hint to make Nick move and get under the covers. He does so – fairly quickly considering he’s pretty sure he’s still moderately inebriated and coordination seems to be something he’s still not _quite_ on par with – and presses cold toes to Harry’s shins, warm from alcohol and the cosy bed. Harry whimpers, but snuggles closer anyway, head resting on Nick’s chest and hand lightly stroking Nick’s hip. He seems calmer now, and Nick’s pleased; it probably shouldn’t be the last they speak of it, but it’s been plenty for the one night.

It isn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed, far from it at this point; Harry’s a clingy little monster and Nick’s okay with admitting that it’s nice to have another body in his rather ridiculous sized bed, even if the activities it’s been used for lately have been kept strictly to sleeping. So Nick sinks into the pillows and attempts to fall asleep, hoping the body attached to him will be able to do the same; he tightens his grip on Harry slightly in an automatic response to his thoughts.

Everything will be better in the morning.

It always is.

Tomorrow Harry will be calmed down and he’ll cave and apologise to Louis for whatever dumb mistake _Louis_ made (so maybe Nick’s a little biased, but he’s allowed to be – he’s the one who cleans up the mess, isn’t he?). Or, miracle upon miracle, Louis might call Harry first and Harry will run back. Like he always does. They’ll spark and flame and set fire to life as they know it until they scorch each other once more and Harry runs to Nick for a bandage.

And tomorrow Nick will go to sleep in an empty bed and try not to think about the absent warmth at his side.

***

Except tomorrow comes and Harry is still at Nick’s, and this time they’re getting drunk silly in front of Nick’s telly on a Saturday night, making more and more lewd comments about Nigella’s penchant for licking and sucking tastes of her creations from her fingers as the night wears on. Somewhere in amongst it a drinking game is created involving both a drink being taken and an item of clothing being removed every time she makes sex eyes at the camera (yeah, Nick’s not sure why either). Until it’s nearing midnight and they’d both given up about the time they were down to their pants and socks and Nick’s reached that point of drunk where, since he’s not doing anything else, he’s slowly falling asleep on the sofa, Harry tucked comfortably under his arm. 

Nick’s nearly there when a change in contact startles him back towards consciousness.

It can’t have been what he thought he felt; a damp press of lips against the skin of Nick’s chest. No, he must have been imagining things, or Harry had shaken his head in sleep and wiped his mouth against him accidentally. Yeah. That’d be it. Just focus on slipping into slumber. And maybe saggy grandma boobs, you know, just in case; no one likes an awkward boner when having a casual cuddle with a mate. Not that Nick felt anything towards-

Oh.

There it was again.

And this time Nick opens his eyes to catch Harry – very deliberately and very much awake from what Nick could make out – lowering his lips to Nick’s chest a third time, this time a little higher, just below his collarbone and, oh dear, yeah, Harry is definitely sucking a mark there.

“Harry?”

Nick’s quite impressed with the way his voice doesn’t waver, but Harry’s only response is to nip at Nick’s skin with his teeth, followed by the flick of his tongue over the mark. And Nick can’t help it, a low keen spills out, and fuck, because Nick’s kind of had imaginings of this nature locked up in his wank bank for quite a while now and he needs Harry to look at him, to see his green eyes, too emotive and too trusting, so he knots his fingers in Harry’s curls and pulls his head back.

Harry’s eyes are, well they’re not hard, but they’re determined in a way Nick wasn’t expecting; aren’t huge and pupil blown and liquid with want. And Nick knows somewhere in the back of his brain that those are things he shouldn’t expect from Harry, that he shouldn’t be expecting anything at all from Harry because Harry belongs to someone else. And so Nick falters, his semi disappearing as quickly as it had come on because no, this really isn’t what he had imagined at all and he wants to voice that fact but Harry’s taken advantage of his momentary lapse and ducked his head once more. He attacks Nick’s neck with a dedicated fervour, leaving Nick floundering for seconds longer.

“Harry…no, no-” but Harry shuts him up with a kiss this time, and really, what has Nick ever done to deserve this. He questions the universe in general as Harry presses a series of almost-but-not-quite chaste kisses to Nick’s lips and whispers in the space between them.

“Please,” Harry repeats, “please, Nick.”

And Nick wants, he does, and Harry’s breath is hot against his mouth, but it’s also still heady with alcohol, tangs sharp each time their lips connect, and all that does is remind Nick of why Harry’s in his apartment tonight at all; it only adds to the throb of _nothisissowrongnonono_ beating in his head.

He tries to shove Harry back a bit, but Harry’s stubborn and stronger than he looks, and Nick’s always sort of subscribed to the ‘walking between the sofa and fridge is all the exercise a man really needs’ set of beliefs. And Harry’s having none of it. The best Nick can do right now is grab at the wrist of the hand sliding down dangerously low on Nick’s torso.

“Harry, love, you don’t- what about Louis?”

And it’s always been a bit of an unspoken rule between them; that they don’t speak his name, not when Harry and Louis have had a fight, not when Harry’s with Nick, trying to forget, or remember, or whatever it is Harry uses this time for.

So it does still Harry for a moment, stops his assault on Nick’s face, but he only retreats as far as the safety of Nick’s neck. Nick thinks Harry’s going to maybe ignore his words altogether, would continue to add to the necklace of bruises Nick is kind of resigned to sporting for the next few days. But then he feels the tickle of breath against the sensitive patch of skin behind Nick’s ear as Harry speaks in hushed tones, like a confession.

“What if he’s _not_ worth it? What if- I mean. He doesn’t want me. Not anymore. Not really.”

The words are stilted and careful, as though they are thoughts long considered but which taste new on Harry’s tongue. And Nick tries, tries so hard not to detect the slight thickness to his voice, the kind that brings back memories of the night before and trying to console Harry on this same sofa. His arms automatically reach around Harry properly trying to bring him closer, in comfort.

Which is of course when Harry raises his head back and crashes it down into Nick’s, all thoughts of light and innocent touches of lips thrown out the window as Harry’s tongue worms its way into Nick’s mouth. Nick is a little bit stunned into stillness, he’s not sure why, but he thought that had been the end of it; should’ve known just how stubborn a bastard Harry was. And it’s so difficult, because Nick _wants_ , but he’s got just enough sense left to know he shouldn’t, no matter how good this feels, no matter-

“ _You_ want me…don’t you, Nick?” Harry pulls back when he realises Nick really isn’t responding to his attempts (not outwardly, at any rate). And this time his eyes have lost some of that steely resolve; just a hint of uncertainty has crept into them and Nick can see the boy who’s got the world in his hand, but underneath it all is just as insecure, who is just making it all up just as much as the rest of the mere mortals.

“Please?”

And, well, fuck it all. It’s that final, quiet plea which does it; Nick doesn’t think a sober saint would be able to resist a desperate and goddamn _begging_ Harry Styles, let alone a drunk Nick Grimshaw (and maybe that’s exactly why he _should_ resist, but Nick’s really too far in now for that).

***

Harry’s grateful the next morning when nothing seems to have changed between him and Nick.

As hunched over the toilet as he may be, his memory of the previous night is surprisingly clear and the thoughts and feelings regarding the hot touches and heavy breathing were only adding to the turmoil in his gut.

And it wasn't just that. They hadn't gotten any further than messy, desperate (at least on Harry’s part) handjobs; brief relief from the strain that Harry could almost feel tearing him at the seams lately. But it was the words beforehand, and the realisation which led to them, that left Harry shaking.

Because he loves Louis. He loves him more than anyone or anything in his life now or before (or to come). Louis is the _only_ person he’s ever been in love with. Harry literally does not know how to love someone that isn’t Louis. And that’s it.

Because it still doesn't seem to be enough.

Sure, they ( _Louis_ ) could hide behind the lies and self-doubt, but at the end of the day, Harry has always been able to see through to the fact which can only be the truth - Louis doesn't love Harry as much as Harry does him. Why else, after almost 3 years together, is he still not screaming it from the rooftops, singing it in the streets? Or even just letting himself hold Harry’s hand on stage.

And Harry doesn't know how to stop. 

But he’s starting to wish he could.

Is starting to think that maybe. Maybe he should.

Just.

Not yet.

He could pretend for a bit longer.

That everything is ok and that the forever they have always believed in will still come true.

He could pretend.

***

Harry stays at Nick's for a couple days more after that night.

Harry thinks Nick is good at this, even if _he_ doesn't think so. His somewhat calamitous nature means he provides the distraction Harry so craves right now, but he also doesn't bring up anything regarding Harry’s first two nights in Nick’s apartment. He lets him have his space to think, without ever giving him the space to actually _think_ , to dwell on those things which Harry knows causes the smile to drop from his face, which makes him want to curl into a ball, wrapped in the jersey which still smells vaguely like Louis’ aftershave.

Nick _does_ put them on an alcohol ban, something which he's never done before. He claims it's because his ancient liver can't handle such benders anymore; that he has responsibilities and shit now - Friday and Saturday might be doable but he can _not_ handle Finchy at six on a Monday with a grade four hangover. Harry knows it’s all bullshit, knows for a fact that Nick has indeed done the breakfast show at least twice in such a state at this point, once while still impressively drunk even. But he appreciates the sentiment.

They spend their time instead watching rubbish telly and catching up with a few of Nick’s mates for most of Sunday and getting a takeout which they rest on their stomachs as they watch yet more telly (not rubbish this time though – The Great British Bake-off is _never_ rubbish, according to Nick). 

Harry tags along to the studio on Monday and has everyone collecting bets on how far into the show Nick’ll get before mentioning or obscurely referencing Harry; approximately thirty seconds as it turns out (and twenty of those are for the intro music). Nick got about as far as “And good _morning_ everyone here for the Radio One Breakfast Show, I’m Nick Grimshaw and Monday mornings are always a bit iffy, aren’t they? But I hope I can help brighten this one with my _lovely_ surprise guest, Breakfast Show’s favourite popstar – don’t tell Swifty – Harry Styles!”

And Harry’s looking at him with wide eyes and _what the hell are you doing Grimmy_ because Harry is quite content to sit in the corner and pass the time swivelling on his chair lazily, poking faces and throwing bits of whatever he can find at Nick while he’s trying to be ‘serious’ and ‘proper radio-presenter-y thank you very much’.

But it’s too late now – Nick’s announced it live to God knows how many people around the world now (Nick’s always surprised at the figures, but Harry doesn’t understand how he can’t see the effect he has on people). And he’s getting a mic shoved at his face and then his voice is speaking even though Harry doesn’t really remember deciding to open his mouth.

“Surpriiiiiise,” his voice is unenthused, but there’s a laugh lurking behind it and Nick’s just smirking smugly at him, the prick.

“Felt sorry for all you guys having to listen to this sad sap every morning so-”

“So you decided to grace us with your ever-glowing presence did you? I’m flattered, really. Shouldn’t you be off trying to scrounge ticket sales or something – I heard you were struggling to sell out the O2 for your 114th extra show in 2018 in under 4 seconds; so actually yeah, you could probably use all the help you can get.”

They fall into their usual banter easily, and, as any time he visits the studio – on or off air – he can feel himself relaxing, enjoying himself. He laughs, and it feels like the first time in weeks that he could really _breathe._

That night, Harry cooks Nick dinner as thanks for the past few days. And he intends to go home that night, he really does, but he’s so warm and sleepy, filled with food and sprawled out on the sofa which is really far more comfy than is decent in Harry’s opinion.

It’s not as though one more night can really hurt at this point. 

***

Harry wakes to find Nick’s left him to sleep-in instead of disturbing him when he leaves for work; Harry has some bacon sandwiches made for him when he gets back around eleven, and he’s tidied the flat just enough that it doesn’t look like a rabid monkey has stampeded the place. His bag is already packed and he sent Liam a text a couple hours ago to meet up at two for a late lunch.

When his phone goes off partway through Nick’s long winded spiel of an idea for a new radio item, Harry expects it to be a delayed reply from Liam, but the vibe continues on and he realises it’s an incoming call.

He glances at the display and answers around a mouthful of sandwich.

“Zayn?”

***

And of course it’s Zayn.

Because Liam might be the ‘responsible one’ in the band but he also feels everyone’s pain without filter or cushioning; compounded on his own until it takes everything for him not to break.

It might have been Louis, in another time, another place; but Louis is hardly ever the one to break their silences, it’s always Harry who ends up running back, sprinting back to the only arms he’s ever known or cares to know; which cling like they’re never going to let go, until somehow they’re standing with an eternity between them once more. Not this time, though.

Not Niall. Just- not Niall.

No, Harry thinks later that of course it was Zayn who called. The most steadfast and steady person Harry perhaps knew; who, even as he ran laps of the room, yelling at the top of his lungs, could probably tell you what every single person in the vicinity was thinking, what they wanted. What they needed.

He thinks these things later. Not now.

_Now_ Harry is clueless, is still waiting for a response from the other end of the line.

“Where are you Harry?” No greeting, no smile on his tongue.

“’m at Nick’s still,” Harry’s confused and makes no attempt at hiding it; there was no barb to Zayn’s tone, but if he wasn’t angry with Harry for not being somewhere else, then he had no clue why Zayn would be calling him. “I’m meeting Liam after – is he not with you then? I figured he’d have told you I was still here.”

“Is Nick with you then?” Zayn continues on, completely ignoring the rest of Harry’s comment.

“Well, yeah,” Harry’s starting to get a little concerned at this point, but he still sticks his tongue out at Nick and swats at him when he tries to poke Harry in the forehead with his finger, where Harry can feel the creases forming, trying to figure Zayn out. “But I’m gonna be off soon; you need me to grab you something on the way back?” 

He knows he’s rambling at this point, but he can’t quite stop himself, trying to fight the panic he doesn’t understand rising within him, “Actually, you best ask Louis if we need anything at ours ‘cause I’ll swing by on my way round to Li’s and knowing Lou we’re probably out of everything but tea and some tinned-”

“Harry.”

“Mm? Zayn, seriously, is everything alright, mate? It’s not Perrie or something is it? Because-”

“ _Harry_ ,” and Zayn sounds so _tired_ , and it’s not a lack of sleep kind of tired; it’s more bone weary than that. It’s as though Zayn’s soul _hurts_ (and maybe that’s just Harry projecting back, but it’s hard to think of anything from the before when he knows the after).

“Harry, I-” and Zayn’s stumbling, trying to find the words. And Zayn mightn’t always be the quickest on his feet with a comeback, but Harry has to think back to the first days together on the X Factor, when they hardly knew each other, to remember the last time Zayn was this backwards in coming forwards.

And he’s not sure why, but Harry can feel his heart pounding (fight or flight his brain tells him; but _for what_ , Harry thinks, _from what_?)

“Spit it out, Zayn.”

“I- it’s Louis, Harry. Louis is-”

And this time in the falter Harry can hear the sharp sound of a sob in the background.

“He’s _what, Zayn, wha_ -”

“Harry, he’s dead.”

Oh.

And then Harry hears rather than feels his knees hit the hard kitchen floorboards.

Hears Nick’s “Shit. _Harry_?”

Hears Nick’s bewildered “What the fuck is happening, what’d you say to him?”

Dully registers arms jostling his shoulder as he lies; eyes wide and staring at the dust bunnies under Nick’s kitchen counter.

It’s as though he’s underwater, pressure pushing at him at all sides and muffling the sensations around him.

It’s a good analogy, Harry thinks detachedly, but maybe a bit weak.

Because Harry’s world has just imploded and the pressure of it caving in on him feels like it might be crushing him.

He wonders if maybe it could.

***

Hands. So many hands. Tugging him in and bringing him close and pushing him into sitting and pulling him away from Louis’ room.

Noises. Sobs and screams and eerie, inhuman keening that Harry wants to shut out. Tries to shut out with hands clasped over his ears until his fingertips start to tingle. Until there are faces in front of him, hushing and stroking his curls and oh. 

It’s him.

***

Blessed black.

Quiet and unthinking and unfeeling.

Black.

***

Everything smells of bleach.

There wasn’t much to clean up. The advantages of hanging oneself from the beams ( _they give the place_ character _, Haz_ ). Maybe Harry says that aloud, because everyone is staring at him even more strangely than they already were.

***

Once they’d wondered _is this what forever feels like?_

Once they’d considered _‘til death do us part_.

And he might have begun to doubt it, but never was this what Harry thought they meant.

***

Suits. Insistence that Harry change into one. Just for a few hours.

Please. As though the magic word can make anything happen.

Harry screams his pleas until even his thoughts grow hoarse.

No one’s listening.

***

Phones ringing. Constantly.

Until Harry pulls out the cord and then there’s silence deafening him instead.

***

Clumps of heavy, wet soil hit the closed coffin, six feet and forever from Harry.

Bile rises in his throat and his heart pounds out once more.

Fight or flight.

Disentangle himself from the arms which keep him standing, which keep him moving at the appropriate times, which Harry lets them think provide him comfort but just remind him of the pair that’s missing. Escape the grasp and run until he’s three days ago and he can say goodbye.

Or fight his way through the shiny veneer, the screws holding Louis, _his_ Louis, from Harry. Struggle until he can wrap himself up next to his one and only and try and remember forever. Say hello and never leave.

He doesn’t move.

***

He locks the door.

Turns his phone on and texts the odd response to the worried messages after the time Liam threatens to knock the door down with the fire extinguisher.

Wakes up in the morning to an empty bed and cold sheets.

Strains his ears to hear the familiar sounds of utensils clattering in the kitchen, or shitty daytime TV coming from the lounge. Tries not to feel disappointed when he’s met only with silence.

And so it repeats.

***

Nick pushes himself up and lurches out of bed to find the phone, knocked off the bedside cabinet after his first poorly aimed attempt at grabbing it.

His eyes flicker to the neon green digits of his alarm clock burning 3:42 into his retinas when he sees the name 'Popstar' appear on his still-blaring mobile.

"Harry?"

The other end of the line is a mix of uncontrollable sobs and ragged, gasping breaths, and Nick is immediately awake and gripping his phone tightly in concern, as if he could climb through the phone line to the distressed boy on the other side.

"Harry, Haz what's wrong? Love, I can't understand you, you need to slow down. Tell me that you're ok, that…that you're not hurt." Because alright, even Nick’s slightly questionable emotional intelligence can tell that something is seriously far from okay but all Nick can think about is a shiny coffin and Harry staring after it as it was lowered into the ground, expression carefully controlled but muscles taut, as though he was fighting the urge to jump in after it. And Nick isn't going to let that happen. 

"Ican'tIcan't...I _can't_ Nick pleaseIcan't-"

"Just breathe, Harry, come on now, you're gonna be okay," Nick soothes, eyes wide and hoping harder than he's ever hoped anything before that he's speaking the truth; the internal chant of _beokaybeokayjust_ please _justbeokayHarry_ the closest thing to a prayer Nick has ever expressed. "Just breathe."

Nick listens to the sounds coming through the speaker, hysterical heaving slowly giving way to cracked and broken sobs as Harry tries to comply.

When Harry attempts to speak once more his voice is so tiny Nick has to strain to hear him, and his speech is hopelessly run together, only to be interrupted by periodic hitches in his breathing; but it's at least intelligible.

"I can't remember what he sounded like when he said he loved me, Nick. And I try picturing his face when he first wakes up and it's all blurry and out of focus. And most of his clothes have always just smelt like me, but the sheets, the sheets don't smell like him anymore."

It’s been almost three weeks since the funeral.

Three weeks since Nick last saw Harry. Since Harry let almost anyone near him by choice, but Nick especially had been pushed away. And Nick thinks he understands that; he does. But letting it happen is one of the hardest things Nick has ever done, and which he’s questioned the wisdom of almost every day since.

“Harry, love? It’s going to be okay, I’m going to make sure you’ll be okay.”

He may have let Harry push him to the periphery, but Nick sure as hell isn’t going to stay there if Harry’s hurting and he’s reaching for Nick’s help.

“I’ll be round yours in fifteen. I’m not going to hang up, just stay right there, but I’ve gotta call into work off the landline, yeah? Let them know I’m not going to be in this morning.”

He puts Harry on speaker, but even then he barely catches the words which echo around Nick’s dark and quiet apartment, just as he’s about to punch in the number to Radio 1; words that convince him sending a text to call in sick for work is just as professional as calling and is doubly useful because he can send it in the car while still talking to Harry. Road rules be damned.

“I can’t, I can’t breathe without him, Nick. Not when he’s gone like this. Not when I know he’s not in the other room, or wherever, anywhere; loving me, hating me, ignoring me. I can’t breathe and what if this is what dying feels like because he’s _not living_ and sometimes I hate him for that but sometimes I want to stop fighting too because it all seems pointless if he’s not fighting with me.”

Because Nick doesn’t do advice and comfort and responsibility but there’s a dark haired, average faced popstar who desperately needs someone fighting in his corner when he’s down for the count, needs someone right now.

And Nick still doesn’t know how to say no to that.

***

He finds Harry huddled at the base of his stairs, wrapped in a duvet Nick knows isn’t his, face pressed into the material taking deep jagged breaths as though he could inhale the answers, conjure the image of Louis if only he believed.

Nick finally switches the call off as he crouches down next to Harry, running a hand through matted and greasy locks.

“Hey, mate. How’s it going?”

Possible contender for most obvious question of the year, but Nick’s a little distracted to be thinking too hard about the words coming from his mouth.

Harry looks up at the contact, and it takes a lot of Nick’s control not to react too visibly to just how drastically the toll of the past three weeks has taken itself out on Harry.

Harry has always been thin, cords of muscle winding visibly just beneath his skin ever since he’d had his growth spurt and been working out on tour. Nick’s always been just a bit jealous, to be honest. But now the face staring up at him is all angles, cherub cheeks wasting to gaunt shadows and sharp cheekbones. Naturally pale skin has turned sickly white, looking almost like death incarnate in the low light of the hall, contrasting against heavy black rings circling Harry’s eyes, dulled to a poor imitation of their usual life. 

Nick always thought Harry’s heart shone through his eyes. Tonight Harry’s heart seems to be faltering, struggling to maintain some sort of rhythm. Watching Harry, Nick thinks maybe his own heart can sympathise with that.

Harry doesn’t even try to rearrange his face into some semblance of a smile at seeing Nick, although his head does reflexively press gently into the touch of Nick’s fingers in his hair. His voice is raspy and tired; worn out from tears and disuse. Maybe just worn out.

“A bit shit really, Grimmy. Bit shit.”

***

Nick will never forget the sickening thud as Harry had fallen to the ground before him, disappearing behind the breakfast bar of the kitchen, sending his cell phone skidding across the floor.

Something hadn’t been quite right with the phone call; Nick could see it in the way Harry hunched his shoulders and wrinkled his forehead, but he’d been poking faces at Nick not twenty seconds earlier and now he was curled on the cold wood, not responding to Nick’s yells of concern.

He’d collected the phone from where it lay by the fridge, demanded to know what had caused Harry such a rapid and physical descent into shock. Zayn had explained what he could, but by this point even the usually collected Zayn was struggling to speak coherently, and the more Nick listened…well, shit.

Nick hung up on Zayn with promises that he’d bring Harry over as soon as possible, that he’d look after him, at least until he could leave him in the arms of the lads who had become his brothers, who would need each other more than ever over the next days, weeks, months. Forever, maybe. Probably.

Doing so was harder than Nick had expected. He’d anticipated Harry to be upset, to be emotional and fragile and maybe wildly angry at him. What he didn’t expect was this deadened shell. That he wouldn’t respond at all, not with a noise or a movement or even the flick of an eye as Nick _tried_ to convince Harry to move, to come find the others.

“They need you, Harry. They need you and you need them right now. Please, Harry. Let me take you home.”

Nick had almost been mentally preparing himself to slap Harry, to try and snap him out of whatever shock had taken hold, if only temporarily. It was a move he’d only ever seen on overly dramatic telly shows, but he was pulling up empty on any other ideas and Harry was _scaring_ him.

Thankfully, or as close to thankful as Nick could get right at that moment, Harry had flinched a little on the word ‘home’, a slow shudder that rolled almost the length of Harry’s body and might have made Nick worried if he wasn’t so relieved that he had moved at all. Harry didn’t oppose Nick pulling him into a sitting position, being tugged into Nick’s chest, where Nick could feel the rapid, shallow breaths ghosting against Nick’s collarbone.

He doesn’t know how long they sat there like that. It felt like years, Nick muttering nonsense and fighting the urge to throw up as he held and rocked Harry, quiet and still except for that incessant hyperventilation. Nick didn’t know at that point whether it would be a bad thing or not if Harry made himself pass out with it right then; it almost might’ve been a reprieve for him, a way to escape the thoughts which Nick could only guess at racing around the spaces of Harry’s mind.

His own mind was hard enough to deal with. Every second, from the still moments to the time spent getting Harry out the door and tucked into his car, blessedly unseen by the paps; Nick had no idea if they knew yet about the disaster which had struck.

Nick, he didn’t really know Louis that well. Had never really tried to get to know him past who he saw in interviews and such. Harry had always wanted them to get on, for two of the people he spent the majority of his time with to mingle and overlap and be one giant happy family. Harry was always far too optimistic next to Nick’s jaded view. Harry would insist that they were actually so much alike and _really Grimmy, I know he can come across snarky but it’s just a defence thing, really_ and maybe that was it. Because yeah, ok, maybe Nick could see more than a glimmer of himself in Louis Tomlinson. But the thing is, Nick doesn’t actually like himself all that much an awful lot of the time – likes his younger self even less – and so to see Louis sort of always made him want to punch the younger man in the face. That and the part where it was usually Louis’ fault Nick had to ever see a less than perfectly happy Harry Styles, ever. And Harry probably wouldn’t appreciate Nick punching his boyfriend, so he generally just kept clear of him altogether.

But dead? Nick was struggling to imagine the obnoxiously large presence that was Louis Tomlinson being snuffed out. Much less by Louis’ own hand. It was so wrong, so inherently against everything Nick thought he knew that he had almost wanted to tell Zayn that there must have been some mistake.

And that was how _Nick_ had felt. As he tried to focus on the road ahead of him, he couldn’t even imagine the hell that must be being Harry right now, eyes staring unseeing out the car window, breath fogging the glass in small huffs.

The last cord that had seemed to be holding Harry together snapped once they stepped inside Harry and Louis’ place.

There had been emergency services outside when they pulled up (they’d actually had to convince the cops to let them in when they arrived), and if the paparazzi hadn’t known something was up when they left Nick’s, then they certainly knew now.

Inside, there were a couple more police and several paramedics. One was partially obscuring a huddle which Nick knew from experience to be a mass of boys; this time it was only a group of three though, and he could tell even across the room that the way they latched to each other was far more out of desperate comfort than the unbounded friendship they shared. They moved almost as one when they saw Harry and Nick in the doorway, but Harry didn’t make any move towards them.

Harry’s gaze was locked on the door to Louis’ room, where the centre of subdued noises seemed to be being carried out to the lounge.

He moved quickly, the most movement he’d made under his own steam since Zayn’s call, and got most of the way before Niall had him caught up with an arm around his waist, begging “Don’t Harry, you can’t, please, you don’t want to go in there, mate, _please._ ”

Niall’s voice had been thick with tears, and his eyes red and almost swollen shut. Nick tried not to think about what he’d seen; Zayn hadn’t been able to say much on the phone, but Nick knew it was Niall who had walked in that morning, who had found…

Nick wasn’t far behind Niall in catching up to Harry, trying to pull him back towards the others. It was next to Harry that Nick caught the glimpse through the uniform-clad bodies into Louis’ room, the briefest view of unmistakeable body bag lain on the carpet.

It was that, Nick thinks, which finally splintered Harry’s silence.

It was horrific.

Nick has never heard such a broken and animalistic wretch of emotion from another human being. He hopes like hell he never has to hear it again. The pure, indescribable pain and anguish tearing from Harry’s body in such a ragged keen was almost otherworldly, and if Nick had been religious he thinks he might have crossed himself in that moment.

As it was, he could only hold Harry tighter, whether in empty reassurance or in the hopes that it would quieten the deafening sorrow he had no idea. And then Zayn and Liam were there, extra hands trying to rub comfort into an exposed shoulder or tangled curls, wiping at tears which had finally begun to stream down Harry’s cheeks in a barrage which only startled Nick further.

Somehow they managed to get Harry seated, still close but giving him slightly more space to breathe. Nick was pretty sure the other boys had all started crying again at the sight of Harry’s breakdown; it was more than a little distressing – Nick’s own cheeks felt damp – and still the raw noise continued to emanate from Harry.

Nick wasn’t even sure Harry recognised the fact that he was making it; Harry sat with his head between his knees, and had pulled his hands to cover his ears, as if to muffle the sound of his own cries.

This time it was Liam, crouching down before Harry and pleading with him to _breathe, please Harry, breathe_ even as his own breathing hiccupped and caught and faltered with a build-up of salty tears and snot.

Finally, _finally_ , one of the paramedics came over to their group with a syringe and a sympathetic face. “This will help him sleep for a bit, calm him for a while and give his brain a chance to come to grips, okay?”

They all nodded dumbly, both relieved that Harry might get a minute’s reprieve from this mess, that the rest of them might stop cracking further under the strain of listening to Harry tear himself to shreds from the inside out, yet a little envious because how were the rest of them supposed to come to grips with this? 

Nick isn’t even close to Louis – _wasn’t_ – is only linked to the periphery by Harry; how Zayn and Liam and Niall were even sitting upright right now was beyond Nick; he’d been fighting the need to vomit and cry and generally break down for over an hour, but these boys were as good as family to Louis and somehow they were coping. Struggling and barely, but coping.

Still. It isn’t only Nick who is washed over with some kind of bitter relief when Harry sinks into unconsciousness, muscles finally relaxing and face falling out of its tense and anguished contortions into something resembling peace. And if that helped the others, even just a little, then it’s something, Nick supposes.

***

“Let’s get you through the shower, yeah? That’ll make you feel better.”

Nick tries to sounds confident. He has no idea how long it’s been since Harry’s washed, but going by the state of his hair, it’s been a couple days at the very least. And Nick always remembers his mum telling him to have a wash when he was ill, as much as he mightn’t have wanted it at the time, because _you always feel better once you’re clean_. Nick’s pretty sure grief and the ‘flu are two very different things, but maybe the theory will work the same. If not, it’ll at least take some time and give Nick a chance to think of his next plan of attack.

It’s soon clear, as Nick helps Harry to his feet and guides him to the bathroom, that a shower might be a bit ambitious. Harry’s more than a little unsteady on his feet, and Nick makes the decision that a bath is probably more soothing anyway.

Harry’s still enveloped in Louis’ duvet when Nick leans him against the bathroom counter while he draws water for the bath, adding some sort of bubble liquid he finds by the tap; that level of not-quite-scalding which hurts just a bit, but just enough that it makes everything else dull in comparison – Nick thinks dulling might just be what Harry needs right now.

They’re kind of past that point in their friendship where seeing Harry’s naked body would deter Nick; he’d always thought that Harry’s band mates had played up Harry’s fondness for nudity in interviews – until he became friends with Harry and witnessed it for himself.

So Nick draws the blankets away from Harry and moves to strip the white tee from his torso. He’s aware that Harry’s gaze is boring into Nick’s face, so he tries desperately to not let his expression change.

He should have realised that if Harry’s face was etched in sharp angles and lines, then so would the rest of him, but Nick really hadn’t thought that far ahead.

It wasn’t terrible, not as bad as Nick knew it could be, knew that it’d only been a couple weeks that Harry had been left to his own devices, and there’s only so much weight you can lose in that much time. But Harry really didn’t have that much to spare even before everything, clothes already hanging that bit looser from long days and hard nights. Now Nick could see outlines of ribs at Harry’s sides, the v of his hips looking like someone could cut themselves on them if they weren’t careful.

But Nick tries to move past it, to help Harry step out of his pajama bottoms without unbalancing, and to step into the steaming bath, knowing there will be plenty of time to deal with that later.

He doesn’t rush Harry; they have nowhere to be and no one to see, and it’s reached that time of the morning where Nick would be getting up now anyway, so he’s not particularly tired anymore, although just watching the fatigue etched into Harry’s face is almost enough to exhaust anyone.

Nick washes Harry’s hair for him; one of those calming actions which he hopes might lull Harry towards being able to sleep, to find some kind of rest in the next short while. He lathers the dark curls with fruity smelling shampoo and runs his fingers through them slowly and repeatedly in the way Nick knows from late night cuddles (the kid’s a giant pet, really) that Harry loves.

They don’t really speak, the quiet splash of water against the sides of the bathtub enough ambient noise in the harsh bathroom light and early morning hours. It’s not uncomfortable; in fact it’s as restful as any time Nick has spent with Harry recently. Everything that needed to be said urgently already had, and everything else – of which Nick was starting to think there was a lot – there would be time for soon enough.

After several hot water top-ups and when Harry’s skin is starting to prune – while the deep creases marring his forehead have finally smoothed out – Nick helps Harry climb out and wraps him in a giant towel from the cupboard in the hall. He uses another to dry off his hair as best as he can; a hairdryer probably would be quicker and more effective, but it feels as though it would be too obtrusive in this quiet bubble they’ve made for themselves over the past hour, so Nick makes do.

Nick leads a stumbling Harry up to his bedroom, but this time the clumsy steps seem more to do with how close to sleep he already is than the frail weakness he was demonstrating earlier. He tucks him into the messy bed (vowing to change the sheets in the morning and wondering when the hell he became so domestic but really those do _not_ look clean) and then, when Harry reaches a heavy limbed arm out in Nick’s direction, strips out of his jeans and climbs into the opposite side.

He had already sort of guessed that, for tonight at least, the barriers between them had dissolved, but he hadn’t wanted to push anything, take anything for granted when Nick knew how Harry felt about the lead up to Louis’ death. But he’s still just that little bit pleased when Harry rolls in towards Nick and snuffles sleepily into his shirt because he’s missed this, missed his friend.

When Nick is mostly sure that Harry is asleep, hopefully finding some proper, much needed rest for at least a few hours, he grips him closer, feeling the fragile wings of Harry’s shoulder blades, and whispers fervently into his still-damp curls.

“You’re going to make it through this, Harry, you are,” he insisted, “I won’t let this break you. I won’t let this, him, be everything you ever are.”

And Nick almost believes he has that power.

***

There had been a note, left on Louis’ bed.

Well, if you could call a single word a note.

_Sorry_.

It didn’t really tell them anything.

If anything it begged more questions than it answered; left those close to Louis scrambling and heavy with guilt.

(Nick had found the small piece of paper by Harry’s bed later on, creased and worn as though it had been screwed up and flattened meticulously and repeatedly. He wondered whether Harry had ever found his answers in the faded lines of ink.)

They – the doctors, the supposed experts – told them all in the blur of the aftermath that Louis had probably been depressed, that he’d probably been that way for quite a while.

It was probably about then that Nick could sense Harry distancing himself, mostly from Nick, but from the boys as well.

It wasn’t enough to push Nick away, not yet (that didn’t come until the door in his face after the funeral, the begging to just leave him alone, the cold wall against Nick’s cheek as he slumped against it, so, _so_ tired), some deep-buried instinct kicking in, telling him to stay and do what he could for the four lads who were not only going through hell, but doing it under the microscope of the public eye.

Because – of course – the entire world now knew about the unexpected and tragic death of Louis Tomlinson. The details had been kept under wraps; some vague explanation for his cause of death which tried to hide the dirty word of _suicide_ from the unstained visage One Direction had always been presented as. The story was about as flimsy as the paper it was written on, but Nick knew it was possibly the kindest thing that could’ve been done. It protected Louis’ friends and family to a degree – although the questions would undoubtedly come after a ‘reasonable’ period of respect (Nick gave it a month) – but it was more than that. A small part of Nick had been waiting, bracing himself for the stories of similar deaths scattered across the globe, teenage girls this time. But so far  he’d seen only news montages of sobbing fans the few times Nick actually tuned into any media; countless YouTube fanvids dedicated to the twenty-one year old rampant over the internet.

The official statement had also included an equally non-committal sentence on the future of the band – that the next leg of their tour would be cancelled, and other dates would be decided upon closer to the time; that the boys thanked their fans for their on-going support and hoped they would continue to support them through this trying time and respect their privacy while they dealt with their grief.

It was probably the most predictable part of the whole ordeal, and Nick knew it was mostly bullshit.

Nick didn’t see them coming back from this. The band mates were probably the five most co-dependent people Nick had ever met, and they wouldn’t recover. Not enough for it to make a difference.

One Direction was over.

The boys were barely holding it together (and never had Nick thought them to be as young as they seemed now), a crumbling tangle of reaching hands trying to comfort the others while they each fell apart in their own way.

Harry was the most obviously crippled by it. After his outburst at the flat, Harry shrunk back in on himself; he slept – a lot – and when he was awake he was listless and near silent, occasionally muttering things that made everyone exchange concerned looks. He allowed the others to try comfort him, never pushed or shrugged his way out of a hug, but more than once Nick noticed the slightest of flinches, shoulders tensing at a touch which he knew wasn’t the one Harry was looking for.

Nick couldn’t figure out how to deal with Liam. He could tell at a glance that he was ready to collapse at any second, but it was as though Liam thought that, if only he could look after everyone else, could help organise tea for Harry or the music selection for the funeral, then maybe Louis would be pleased enough that he’d come back, tell Liam it was all just an elaborate prank on him, and that’d be okay because Liam was used to that. It was probably something to do with control; finding any tiny semblance of control over the train wreck his life had turned into. But Nick was afraid he was going to crack, fall apart entirely if he didn’t slow down.

Not that Nick necessarily knew what he was talking about. He also picked that the stress would turn Zayn into a chain smoker, was fully prepared to stand quietly with him on the balcony while he sucked in the poison in an attempt to puff out his grief. But the opposite happened; as far as Nick could tell, Zayn quit cold turkey the day that Louis died. Maybe the withdrawal was something to mask the raw and aching pain hiding beneath it. And while Zayn was almost as quiet as Harry in the days afterward, sitting, watching, it was also him who finally stood the day before the funeral, who took Liam by the shoulders and wrapped him in a crushing hug, as if to absorb some of Liam’s pain. It was Zayn who Liam finally stopped for, who let Liam soak his collar as tears burst forth afresh. And it was Zayn who tucked Liam close to his side and gripped his hands between his own shaking fingers. It was possibly one of the most intimate scenes Nick had ever witnessed, and it had felt almost like prying to watch.

It was almost as hard to watch Niall, though. Nick had always gotten a sense that the other lads were perpetually looking out for Niall, that they tried to buffer him from anything that might hurt his trusting and literally bouncing nature. But they hadn’t been able to protect him from this, from stumbling upon one of his best mates, dangling…they couldn’t protect him and would never be able to fix it. That didn’t stop Zayn and Liam from trying, from trying to give their sunshine some of his brightness back. And Niall seemed like he wanted to take hold of that, to believe that things might be okay, at some point; but it only took Liam and Zayn being busy with something else, with their own emotions, a glance towards Harry’s closed door or a moment left in the silence of the flat, unfamiliar for somewhere usually filled with the unmistakeable presence that screamed _Louis_ , for Niall to be found once more, huddled in on himself, weeping quietly but inconsolably. Nick didn’t know how much longer he could handle this before his own heart broke.

It was a case of be careful what you wish for though; all too soon, Nick was back on the outside, no longer privy to the pain but also no longer able to provide what small comfort he could force out of his less-than-proficient skill set.

And it was possibly also a case of things looking so much worse from the outside looking in. Nick knew better than to trust any media reports, but it was almost as bad receiving unintentionally cryptic texts from Liam ( _u hurd frm hary?_ ; _dnt spose u hav a spear key do u?_ ), or second guessing the odd tweet sent from one of the boys’ Twitter accounts. Not knowing may just have become worse than the raw exposure.

But then Harry called him

And so here he was.

***

Nick must have fallen asleep eventually, because when he next opens his eyes light is streaming in through the gap in the curtains, catching glints off of the curly haired head on his chest, still snuffling softly in his sleep.

It’s tempting for him to close his eyes again and wait for Harry to wake, but now that he’s conscious he’s starting to become uncomfortably warm beneath the layers of blankets and boy.

Nick disentangles himself from Harry’s grasp – careful not to disturb him – as he’s certain it’s still too early for him to be woken quite yet.

He pads out to the kitchen, wrinkling his toes against the cold wood of the floor. It probably says a lot, Nick thinks as he surveys the sight before him, that his own kitchen is considerably less messy than Harry’s is right now. It’s not the mess of laziness either; dishes everywhere, unrinsed plates and empty takeout cartons all over the counter. No this was barely even neglect – except maybe of Harry himself. Most of the dishes were either barely dirty or still mostly full; toast with maybe two bites (nibbles) taken, or room temperature mugs of tea – as though Harry had made them and simply lost interest, or desire, for the contents. Even more likely, Nick guesses as he opens the fridge to find it mostly bare but with a note tacked to the milk in the door ( _yr other bottle had expired so heres another :)_ ), that Liam or one of the other boys had been round and Harry had only consumed precisely enough for them to back off, leave, and then he could drop the act.

Nick’s starting to think that that there might be half the problem; that even here, alone and shut up from the world, Harry’s still pretending, even if he doesn’t realise that’s what he’s doing. Pretending to be okay; pretending that this hasn’t happened, isn’t happening. Because he’s not; it has and it is. And then there’s the big one, the one which isn’t really pretending, Nick knows – it’s Harry’s whole set of beliefs right now – but is the one that’s most important for Nick to convince him (and himself) is false, just steeped in pain and coloured by grief to look like truth. Because Harry is acting as though – maybe, Nick thinks uncomfortably, truly believes – this is it. That it will never get better, that he will never move past this. That this is all there is. 

And Nick needs that to change. Needs it for Harry, his mate who is far too young for this to be it; for himself, because seeing Harry like this has been killing him; for Louis, because while Nick might not be able to forgive him for the way he left this world, Nick knows that Louis loves ( _loved_ ) Harry and wouldn’t be able to bear him suffering like this any better than Nick can.

For now, Nick settles for finding some eggs that he’s 97% sure are still fit for human consumption and a loaf of bread from the freezer and sets about making up two plates of fried egg on toast. It’s nothing fancy, but there’s not really enough in the cupboards for something fancy, and if Harry’s been eating as little as Nick believes, then his stomach probably isn’t up to Nigella’s doughnut French toast. Maybe tomorrow.

The toast is only slightly burnt, and the eggs are solidifying in the middle by the time Nick carries the plates through to Harry’s room. Harry must have woken up at some point while Nick was cooking, and he watches Nick warily as he takes his place next to him on the bed (crumbs be damned), as though he expects Nick to force feed him through a funnel while he’s not looking. Which is a possible solution if he gets desperate, Nick supposes, but for now just tucks into his own breakfast and launches into a rundown on the show he’s all but slept through at this point and whether or not he’s going to have to check his desk for booby traps when he goes back _because I might have done something similar once_ (possibly thrice) _to Ian when he was off_ around a mouthful of egg.

And after half an hour of inane chatter ghosting around the obvious cracks, both Nick and Harry look down at Harry’s plate and – barring a couple particularly charred crusts – it’s empty. Nick isn’t sure which of them is more surprised.

“Well, whaddya know; Harry Styles, the guy who proved that you don’t have to eat your crusts to ‘ave curly hair.”

But, you see. The thing is.

Nick doesn’t know how to do this. He’s never known how to do this.

And he hides everything behind a smile and a well-meaning joke (and he isn’t going to start making comparisons again, he’s _not_ ).

But for now it seems like it might be enough just to be there. To stay.

And _that_ might be something Nick’s not ever known how to do either, but for Harry he’s willing to learn.

***

Harry still isn't sure why he'd called Nick over everyone else the other night. 

He just knows that all his days and nights and endless seconds had begun to bleed into one another and that this suffocating pain hadn't lessened any. And all of a sudden everything was sharp, the dagger he'd been ignoring twisting violently in his heart - Louis wasn't coming back this time. Harry couldn't go back to him, play the game where everything was alright for a few more weeks. Louis wasn't coming back and Harry wasn't ready for this - hadn't kept careful stock of every moment, prepared a folder of memories in his mind that he'd never forget; there were so many things he could already feel slipping away from him.

The precise pitch of his laugh when his sisters told him a joke; the expression he wore when Harry managed to genuinely surprise him; how his lips felt pressed against his own in lust, anger, passion. Love. Love, love, love.

And then Harry just couldn't. Breathe. 

It was as though someone had poured icy water into his lungs and now he was drowning. 

Harry thinks he remembers hearing someone say once that when you're dying and you see your life flash before your eyes, it’s actually your brain trying to find something, anything in your memories which might help you survive.

Harry doesn't know if he was actually dying that night, but he does know what image popped into his head as he struggled to catch any kind of breath.

Nick.

And maybe there was something to that flashes thing after all.

Because who else was always there to pick up the pieces Louis broke him into? Nick had never let him down before. At this point, he might be the only one left who hadn’t.

And apparently this was no time for exceptions because not only did Nick turn up in Harry’s flat (at an absurd hour, or so Nick tells him later; Harry wasn’t quite sure at the time), but he’s still there, two days later. Taking care of him. Making sure he washes, and eats and maybe Harry feels just a little coddled – like a toddler who still needed help getting their buttons done up – but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of his chest loosening, of being able to take a breath and not feel it choking him.

It’s all only by infinitesimal increments, a moment of lightness here, a second of relief there. It’d be enough, Harry thinks, even when he sometimes wonders if he imagined the feeling, if it wasn’t for the unintended consequences of this slow lifting of grief.

Because beneath the raw and weeping pain of loss is something which Harry thinks might just be even harder to deal with, which makes him almost want to push Nick away again and shroud himself once more.

Guilt.

It’s not as sharp as the grief, but it’s pervasive and consuming and crawls into all the corners of Harry’s mind whenever he loosens his guard for the tiniest of seconds.

And he doesn’t know how to fight it, because Harry knows that all these dark and niggling thoughts that worm at him as he tries to sleep, or is reaching for the shampoo, or _breathing_ – they’re true. And Harry doesn’t know how to fight back against the truth.

Harry should have seen it. People don’t just become depressed overnight; they don’t go from happy to _suicidal_ in the blink of an eye. Harry lived with Louis, slept with him, knew him better than anyone else in the world. He was supposed to _love_ him, for fuck’s sake. If anyone was going to realise that something wasn’t right with Louis, it was Harry. _It should have been Harry_. And all of a sudden Harry isn’t sure what exactly that thought means.

Harry should have known what was happening inside Louis’ head. And failing that, he should have _been there_. Should have been home, with Louis, where he could stop him, where he belonged, instead of…

And that’s where Nick comes in once more.

He has always been Harry’s saviour when he needed it most, but there are still the tiniest parts of Harry - those which don’t hate himself with the strength of hellfire - which can’t help but blame Nick for what happened too. It’s why he pushed him away so thoroughly in the aftermath; because as much as he wanted to cling to him like a life-raft, he couldn’t stand the sight of Nick (or the sight of Harry, reflected in his eyes) after everything, the vile emotions which coursed through him when in Nick’s face Harry could only see all the ways he failed Louis.

It couldn’t last – the need for something, anything which could drag him from the waters he was sinking in soon outweighed the negatives (Harry couldn’t look himself in the eyes anyway; what was another set he couldn’t meet?). 

And then Nick was there. And things were better. But worse. 

The crippling guilt came back; for every moment he felt his lips twitch upwards, almost as if under their own control, in response to something Nick said, the heavy sense of betrayal would also grip him.

“I think you should maybe go,” he says to Nick on the third night, not looking at him as they sit on the couch, Harry bundled in a thick blanket which muffles the words and (he hopes) hides the part where even Harry knows the words are lies.

Nick had been eyeing him strangely all night, and Harry thinks his weird Grimmy-senses must’ve been switched all the way on, probably bored out of his mind with only the lump of being that looked somewhat like that popstar Harry Styles for company. He’d finally switched the telly to mute and asked him outright, something Harry kind of knows he’d been trying to tiptoe around.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” _Besides the obvious_.

“I think you should maybe go,” mumbled into the fibres of the orange blanket which Louis had always declared garish (but only as he shook his head and walked away muttering _only Harry could still look good in fucking_ orange).

Nick stares at him now for a long moment; Harry resists the urge to look up at him, not wanting to see the expression – uncertain whether it’d be worse to see anger or relief in his features – but still able to feel his eyes boring into him in that way which very few people (and even less now) were able to; as though all the layers of Harry were being stripped away, past even what Harry could see within him.

“No.”

It’s almost emotionless, soft but leaving no room for interpretation. If anything it sounds faintly curious, and because Harry knows Nick almost as well as Nick knows him, probably a bit surprised that he’d actually denied Harry.

Harry must sit there in silence for a bit – unsure where to go from there if Nick wasn’t going to leave – because Nick nudges Harry’s knee gently with his big toe from where he was sat at the other end of the sofa. Harry dares to look him in the face and is met with a sad smile.

“I’m not going to leave you when you’re like this, Haz,” Nick says softly, “Do you really not know that by now?”

Harry ducks his head again, shaking his hair over his eyes.

“’m not Haz; not anymore,” he says instantly, almost angry. He pauses. “That’s what he used to call me.”

It was probably the most he’d said about Louis (the only thing) in weeks. Harry didn’t even let himself think too long about him for the most part; only in the moments he couldn’t help it, on waking, still expecting Louis to be there next to him, or that instinctual memory every time certain songs (every song) came on the radio Nick turned on to fill the silences. It set him hurting in new ways he hadn’t even known were possible, as though someone were splintering his ribs and forcing the shards deep into his chest, tearing apart his heart, his lungs; everything he needed to live.

There’s the sound of Nick not quite clucking at him in sympathy (and Harry thinks it would almost make him smile despite himself, if he weren’t trying to remind his heart how to beat, because as much as Nick would deny it, he really is a 72-year-old grandmother)

“I- I know you haven’t wanted to talk about L- _him_ ,” Nick starts slowly, and a fresh pang of guilt hits Harry because Nick Grimshaw is anything but hesitant and it’s _Harry_ that’s done this to him, “but I’m here if you do. And I promise I’m not pushing you, but Harry? I think that maybe you _need_ to.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

It’s no more than a breath of air, but Nick hears him.

Harry hears Nick trying not to scoff (or possibly choke).

“You- I…Harry _please_. Talk to me.”

Harry hasn’t cried in a long time; his tears long since running dry to leave him hollow and echoing with pain; he does now though, breath catching as he tries to fill his shredded lungs, to counteract the gnawing in his chest.

“It just hurts _so much_ ,” he manages to get out as he feels himself bundled into Nick’s arms and sighs of _oh love, I know_ , are murmured into his hair. It’s become a familiar position to be in; to be encircled by a body which is actually large enough for Harry to feel protected within. In Nick’s arms he feels safe.

But it also brings up other memories, other feelings which make Harry think that maybe Nick’s right after all; that maybe he needs to say something before he crumbles away altogether.

Because this, _this_ – the cuddles and the sympathy and the always being there for Harry to run away to – this is why he needs Nick to go, to leave him well alone. Because last time he’d run into those arms, the arms he’d left had closed to him forever and he just. _Can’t_. 

Harry pulls away from him; Nick’s expression is crumpled in confusion, but he doesn’t try to stop Harry from pushing his arms from Harry’s shoulders.

“I can’t,” he gestures between the two of them, the almost non-existent spaces, “with you anymore. Don’t you get it? It’s _my fault_ that Louis’ dead.”

It’s different saying the words aloud rather than them lurking, taunting in the back of Harry’s mind. It’s a shock, and it pushes him into gasping sobs because he did, he _killed Louis_ and how the hell is he supposed to live with himself knowing that he’s as good as a murderer. And Nick’s arms are there once more, but as much as Harry fights it, Nick isn’t letting go, even when Harry gives in and finally relaxes into his embrace.

And then the words start pouring out of him. 

“Oh god, I did; I killed him. I killed him. I should-” the words are like a flood gate has been opened and the torrent only gets faster as Harry continues, “I _should have_ been here with him. I was _supposed_ to be home here with him that night but I crashed at yours another night instead… _why’dIdothatGrimmy_?”

Harry’s pretty certain he looks as much a mess as his tortured insides feel; can see a reflection of wild eyes in Nick’s as he begs askance of him, wishes Nick could answer because he’s certain that’d make all the difference.

Harry doesn’t think he could stop now, kind of wishes he could. But all the words and thoughts and feelings which had been building up for weeks – some which he hadn’t even been aware of – were spilling out between the tears without any control on his part.

“I should never have left him. It was such a dumb fight. Why’d I have to be such a dick about it? He only wanted to wait; he was doing it for _us_ , for _me_. And instead I _left_ him. I came to you and pretended and you, I made you-” he tries to lift his hands, cover his mouth because he _doesn’t want to hear himself anymore_. “I _cheated_ on him. Who does that? Who, god- ohgodohgodoh _god_ ” the breaths are struggling to come and Nick’s hands are running frantically over Harry’s back and through his curls, but he barely even notices because Harry feels like he remembers every conversation he ever had with Louis, but he’s only just now remembered the final thing, that had been fluttering out of reach for weeks.

The words are disjointed and sloppy and garbled by tears, but from the way that Nick’s grip tightens periodically and the feel of him shaking his head above Harry, he knows Nick’s understood him, as far as it counts anyhow.

“Oh god, when I left the last thing I ever said to him. I said- I told him that he was the one with all the problems. He’d said that it was easier for us to keep the rest of the world in the dark. I was walking out the door and he told me he loved me. And all I did was tell him that it’d be _easier_ if maybe he didn’t and,” his voice cracked, “shut the door in his face.”

He can’t speak anymore, but it isn’t so much sobs as what some part of his brain identifies as hysterical laughter; loud, ragged peals that he can’t seem to control. Louis can’t have- he couldn’t have believed Harry, could he? Because that would almost be hilarious if it wasn’t making him want to puke.

Harry could never get Louis to fall for any of his prank attempts; every single one of his ploys to give Louis a legitimate surprise (even the nice variety) always fell through because Louis could read Harry like a book. And yet somehow it seems he believed one of the dumbest lies Harry had ever let leave his lips; as if anything could ever be easy without Louis. Had he expected Harry to replace him? With who? As if Harry would be able to love anyone the way he loves (still present tense, always _loves_ and _wants_ and _needs_ ) Louis. If there’d never _been_ a Louis, Harry would likely still be at home, working in the bakery, or maybe off at uni now, studying to work at some other 9-5 job – nothing against 9-5 jobs, but it seems so mundane after what Harry’s life has become.  And it all was Louis. It was always Louis. How could he not have seen that? Harry is (forever present tense) _nothing_ without Louis.

And maybe the words are spoken aloud because the only noise audible over Harry’s own hitching breaths, muffled by Nick’s sodden shirt, is Nick’s voice in his ear, whispering fiercely _you are not nothing Harry not nothing not nothingnotnothingnotnothing_. He’s not entirely sure he believes it, but he allows the repetition to lull him calm, exhausted from the outpouring and almost content to fall asleep in Nick’s arms, almost certain that after this Nick will slip away in the night and Harry won’t blame him. Because he wouldn’t stay either, not for someone as awful as he is.

But Nick’s tugging Harry up to face him before he can slip back into the black.

“Harry I need you to listen to me. This is important, okay?” And Nick has his serious voice on; not the one where he’s actually joking, but the one where Harry’s pretty sure he doesn’t even know he’s putting it on; the one that Harry can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard it be used.

“’Kay.” His voice is only a little thicker than normal now, slightly huskier as he swallows the last of his tears.

"You really do believe all this don't you?" Even now, Nick’s voice is incredulous, and Harry wonders if maybe he hadn't heard his confessions after all.

He focuses his gaze somewhere in the region of Nick’s right cheekbone, "What's not to believe?"

"Yep, no, okay, it’s officially my turn to talk. You're going to listen and when I ask you a question you're going to nod in agreement because your friend Nick is almost unattainably wise, alright?"

"Nick..."

"I believe you intended to nod there, love."

Harry struggles to not roll his eyes and silently gives Nick a short dip of his head. And this is why it’s so hard to block Nick out of his life; it only takes him seconds to start making Harry feel better. And, of course, that is why he _needs_ to block Nick out of his life. Because he doesn’t deserve to feel better. Not yet, maybe not ever.

"Much better," Nick gives him a small reassuring smile, "Now. You did _not_ kill Louis."

Harry automatically goes to shake his head but Nick grasps the sides of his face and holds him steady, warm hands an anchor to tie himself to, making sure Harry meets his eyes.

"No, no disagreement; it wasn't even a question, I was just informing you of a fact that everyone else already knows but apparently forgot to send you the memo. You - Harry Styles - did not kill Louis. Louis killed Louis. Depression killed Louis. Feeling completely out of control of his life and unable to see the daylight through the black anymore, that killed Louis. Do you understand?" 

Harry moves to nod even as he opens his mouth to explain that _yes but he should have seen_ but Nick clamps a hand over his mouth and fixes him a stern glare.

"You are not responsible for his death. Maybe, _maybe_ , you were part of the factors that led him to sinking under the surface, but then so are the rest of us, and we can't all destroy ourselves with that knowledge because we'll never survive.  You _have_ to stop blaming yourself, love, because right now you're drowning in it and the boys can't lose you as well. _I_ can't lose you."

"But what we-"

"It was wrong," Nick grimaces and Harry isn't sure he wants to know what is going on behind Nick’s creased forehead right now, "It was a mistake and I _knew_ that and I should have stopped you because you didn't really want-"

"I wanted it," Harry’s voice is small but it stops Nick for a moment from his distracted speech, which Harry can’t help but notice seems to have become directed almost internally rather than at Harry. Nick stares at him with an expression Harry can't quite decipher but then continues, this time meeting his eyes.

"Regardless. It _was_ a mistake because no matter either of our feelings, you were in a bad place and I let you do something that has clearly only led to regret. And yeah, it was a shit move because you were still with Louis, but you know what? Louis didn't know about that. He didn't know anything about it; his choices gave no reflection on what happened between you and me and you have to let it go because it’s just one more thing that's pushing you under. And I will leave after this if you truly don't want me here, but your decision isn't allowed to be based on that night, because that might have been, was, a mistake, but _all_ I want is to see you happy again. Which brings me to something else that, while we're at it, you need to hear. And I don't know if you've forgotten it in amongst everything else or you’re just trying to block it out because it only makes you feel even worse, but you do; you need to hear it."

And Harry thinks maybe he knows what's coming. And Nick’s right; Harry definitely doesn't want to hear this. It’s what he's been hiding from for weeks because it’s eating away at him, gnawing at his insides and tainting the memories he'd much prefer to be left with.

“You loved Louis, Harry. You still do, and no one, least of all me is going to try tell you otherwise. He was incredibly important to you and a huge part of your life. You’re never ever going to forget that. But Harry, you two weren’t happy at the end, as much as I know it’d be nice to think otherwise. You can’t fix it now and it’s only going to hurt more pretending it was something it’s not and- I know it’s bad form to speak ill of the dead but you remember what you said to me don’t you?”

Nick tilts his head as if for confirmation and Harry nods sadly, trying to duck his head by pressing his cheek into the comfort of Nick’s hand, still on his face. It’s as though Nick wants more from him though. And Harry’s not sure if he has anything left to give anymore but he thinks maybe he needs to say it aloud anyway, to hear the words he doesn’t even let himself think.

“I was going to break up with him.”

The words come out steadier than Harry had thought he’d be able to manage and, although little louder than a whisper, they seemed to echo around the still room.

It felt as though another piece of Harry had fallen away, exposing another gaping wound. But this time the piece had been leaden and while yes, maybe it hurt to admit and yes, maybe it was even more damage to add to the numerous slices and cuts, but underneath the sting Harry felt lighter. He hadn’t noticed just how much those few words had been weighing him down; how exhausting it had been trying to keep them hidden.

Nick’s rubbing his thumbs over and over Harry’s cheekbones, and that’s when Harry realises he’s started crying again, as tears stream silently to be wiped away under Nick’s touch.

They don’t talk anymore; Harry’s not sure how much more he can handle anyway. But the doors have been opened now, he doesn’t think it will be as hard as this first time. And he hopes that he can make Nick understand just how much he appreciates him by touch; how much he needs Nick in the way he latches onto him like a life raft.

Harry lets the grief wash over him, in a way he hasn’t before now. Lets himself succumb to the death of Louis, but also to the death of the relationship he’s always held synonymous with _forever_. And for the inability to go back; not even to change things anymore – not because he wants to manage to save Louis second time round, not even to stop himself from walking out the door – but just because more than anything, Harry still desperately wishes he could have had a chance to say goodbye, to let Louis know that through and despite and because of everything, Harry loves him. Grief for the person Harry’s always thought he iswaswantedtobe, but who is starting to feel like a stranger.

It’s terrifying, and it feels as though parts of him are eroding away with it, but Nick’s holding him close and Harry knows that, whatever happens, Nick won’t let him crumble away completely; he’ll hold him together for as long as it takes for Harry to glue himself whole again.

***

Nick stays.

They develop a routine.

Nick returns to work after the first week. Harry is finally able to sleep again, something which had only been making things worse, kept up through the night and haunted by ghosts of memories. He sleeps heavily – and usually dreamlessly – and often Nick is back from work before Harry even knows he was missing. Nick always leaves a note for him by the bed though, for the odd time he does wake up alone in the flat. It’s nothing more than a ‘ _off to ruin the mornings of millions of people, be back soon :) x_ ’, but it’s comforting nonetheless.

Zayn and Liam and Niall all come around relatively often; for lunch or dinner or just for a bit of a chat and to watch some telly. Harry had been nervous about seeing them again, after the way he’d treated them, or ignored them to put it more aptly – terrified even after his discussion with Nick that he’d look at them and see the blame they put on Harry written all over their faces. Of course, what really happened was that they hugged them until he could barely breathe, then sat cautiously around the lounge for a few minutes as they all tried to figure out what was taboo to them now; that is until Niall declared loudly that his pre-ordered copy of FIFA had arrived and he hadn’t had a chance to try it out yet “so budge up, Harry, we all know that sofa’s the only one that you don’t get glare on the TV.”

 They didn’t leave until late – long after Nick had declared that he had to put his grandfatherly self to bed – and while it was strange being one of four, it was better than being alone.

Harry still doesn’t much know what to do with himself. A few weeks after Nick unofficially moved himself in and Harry still doesn’t really like to leave the flat, especially not by himself. The media-deigned ‘mourning’ period is over and paparazzi would be over him once more if he ventured out, and he doesn’t really have anywhere to go in the first place to make it worth the interrogation and attack.

For now, he’s considering each day that he can get up out of bed and shower and maybe eat whatever Nick has made for them today as a success. Sometimes he smiles.

Small steps.

Nick seems to have made it his mission to make Harry smile. Or, Harry gets the feeling there’s something else, something more to it, but he’s more than content with just going along with whatever ulterior motives Nick may have because it’s with him that he feels those tiny flickers which spark _happy_ in Harry’s dulled mind.

What happens is this. Usually once a day, occasionally more often, they’ll be doing a lot of not much really and something insignificant will happen. Literally it may not be anything more than Harry picking up the remote and changing the TV channel. And Nick will say something like,

“Ooh, Harry Styles, the boy that’s too good for Jeremy Kyle.”

“Harry Styles, the boy who actually managed to eat an entire plate of my chowder. That is impressive, innit.”

“Huh. Harry Styles; the fella who is apparently a silent sufferer of a very rare form of colour-blindness because _somehow_ we now own a whole wardrobe’s worth of pink shirts that I’m _pretty sure_ were white this morning. Lucky you’re pretty.”

And it’s only ever an offhand remark, never goes any further unless Harry chooses to retaliate, but there’s always that feeling that it means something more, if only Harry could decipher between the lines and the easy smile or mock-glare. He’s not that inclined to though, much preferring the smile that appears on Nick’s face whenever Harry’s lips tweak slightly, or the indignant squawk Nick utters the time that Harry lobbed a cushion at him for telling him he was “Harry Styles, the kid with the most freakish looking feet I’ve ever had the horror of witnessing.”

Each night they go to sleep, sometimes both in Harry’s bed, sometimes Nick on the couch, sometimes both on the couch, having fallen asleep yet again in front of the Food Network. Harry wills unconsciousness to come quickly, for this is still the time when pain and guilt lurk in the darkness, but they seem to retreat with less resistance as the weeks continue.

And each morning he wakes up to an empty bed and cold sheets.

Strains his ears in the hopes that he’ll hear utensils clattering in the kitchen, or shitty daytime TV coming from the lounge. 

And, usually, he does.

It’s not the same noises; a different voice singing along to a different radio station; less frequent swearing as the smoke alarm bleeps (although not by much). But Harry’s not alone.

And so it repeats.

***

Sometimes Nick questions if anything is getting better at all.

It’s been nearly three months now. And still there are days where Harry will lie in bed, or curled into himself on the sofa and stare blankly at the wall for hours at a time, barely responsive to anything Nick might try to snap him out of it.

Still there are nights where Nick is woken by the screams coming from Harry’s bedroom. Where screeches morph into heart-wrenching sobs as Nick attempts to gently wake Harry from his nightmare but only succeeds in reminding him of the nightmare he can’t wake up from. And Nick will take hold of him and wrap his flailing limbs within the frame of his own body and hold him until the cries dissipate to whimpers and eventually Harry is able to fall asleep once more to the sound of Nick’s heartbeat beneath his ear.

Nick knows that Harry likes to ignore these days, that he likes to think he’s better than he is because he _wants_ to be better, be happier. Even if it’s only for Nick’s sake. Or the boys’. Or Louis’. But the times where Nick can see that he really, honestly wants to do this for himself – those are the reason’s Nick stays, keeps trying.

Some days Nick will come home late after having lunch out with Annie and the flat will be quiet and seemingly empty, the door to Louis’ room pulled closed. He never disturbs Harry when he shuts himself away with Louis; he understands that this is something private. But that’s what he does – locks himself up with Louis; occasionally he’ll overhear the low tones of Harry talking to himself carrying through the walls. It’s the voice of a boy telling his best friend all that he’s been missing out on, as if Louis’ only gone away for summer break. It reminds Nick of all Harry’s lost in Louis. It breaks Nick’s heart.

Harry treats the room like a shrine. It’s never been cleared out, by Harry or Jay, and besides the cleaning it got _after_ , Nick can tell nothing has been changed in the past months. Opened mail is still scattered over the dresser, a pile of loosely folded clothes sit in a pile by the wardrobe. The bed maintains a slept-in appearance; although this one aspect Nick is never sure if it was always like that or if it was Harry. Nick wonders if maybe that’s the one place that still smells like Louis, even now; if it provides some sort of comfort that Nick can’t quite deliver.

But no matter how much Harry might consider it a safe haven, Nick can’t help but view it as a torture chamber, camouflaged by family photos plastering the walls and a comfy, familiar mattress. Because Nick knows as well as he knows Showbot is certifiably insane, that Harry _will_ eventually fall asleep in Louis’ bed. And the nightmares will always come back on those nights. It’s the only reason Nick ever ventures in there, to lift a barely conscious and wailing Harry to his own room where the ghosts can’t reach him as easily.

Once, Harry tried to explain the dreams to Nick. He says they’re almost achingly normal; that it’s like some strange amalgamation of then and now where Nick and Harry live in the flat as they do, but where they go out with their circle of friends as they did – where Harry is _happy_ (and Nick tries not to flinch at the sardonic bite to Harry’s tone). Yet, at some point or another, Harry tells him how dream-Nick’s face always changes; suddenly Louis will be standing in front of him, staring up at Harry. He never does tell Nick what it is Louis does which always leads to the yelling, the sheets damp with sweat, but Nick’s not sure he needs (or wants) to know, really.

The talking between them, where Harry lets Nick in, doesn’t struggle through alone, does become easier as time goes on. It’s never as difficult or as messy as the night Nick was struck by just how deep Harry had been tormenting himself with misplaced guilt. They might not mention it often, or have an entire conversation about it, but it’s like a taboo has been lifted.

They’ll be sitting in the kitchen with some bowls of cereal because Nick hasn’t done the shopping and Harry will wiggle his foot in the direction of something on the floor Nick can’t see.

“Louis chipped that tile when he managed to drop the big ceramic mixing bowl Mum had given us when we moved in,” and he’ll crinkle his forehead as he murmurs, “I haven’t baked in a long time.”

He’ll look up at Nick and say, “I think I might miss baking.” _I miss Louis_.

And Nick will ask, “Would you like to make something?”

“I- don’t know. It kind of reminds me of him, you know? He actually had an apron declaring himself ‘Chief Bowl Licker’ made.”

“You know, I’m never one to pass up some raw mixture.”

Harry will pause.

“Maybe.”

They won’t talk about it again then, but one day Nick will pick up more groceries, and maybe there just so happens to be an unpacked plastic bag left on the bench when he leaves that night for a gig and interview for work. Alongside the new Nigella cookbook. Which Nick is almost certain doesn’t contain anything Harry will have made before. And maybe he’ll come home in the wee hours to a flat filled with the scent of something warm and chocolate and a note saying _help yourself_ next to an unwashed bowl and spoon with the remains of what looks to be cake batter in it.

So there are improvements; it’s only the bad days that make Nick feel like he’s doing more harm than good. But they don’t stop Pix and Annie exchanging significant looks across the restaurant table, from Ian and Finchy giving him sad smiles as he comes in looking all sorts of shattered after being woken at two in the morning for the third night running. From Liam and Zayn shaking their heads as they say goodnight after another evening where Harry had been pleased to see them but sat watching the rest of them banter back and forth rather than join in; or Niall’s fallen face when he realises he’s picked Harry’s plate clean without a single admonishment.

“You sure this is the best thing for you, Grimmy love?” Pixie asks.

“He needs me.”

“She said for you, not him,” Annie points out, “Does he have any idea what this means to you?”

“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you two are talking about.”

“Ok then; when was the last time you were home,” Annie cuts back over him before he can even open his mouth, “and I mean _your_ place, not Harry’s.”

Nick’s sure he must fish mouth or something, because it seems to be as clear to them as it suddenly is to him that he can’t actually remember. He hadn’t officially moved into Harry’s or anything, but it definitely wasn’t his place where all except the rattiest of his clothes were being stored and washed and worn.

“And _when_ , Grimmy, did you last get _laid_?” Pix smirks at him with far too much delight and sparkle in her eyes.

Well he definitely isn’t answering that one. Not because he can’t remember the answer, but more because that would mean confessing that the last time Nick had gotten anywhere close to some action was the night Harry had given him a drunken handjob on Nick’s sofa. And Nick is most definitely not telling these two that.

His silence is admission enough for their point, though.

“Exactly,” Annie says triumphantly while Pix nods her head in agreement as if that settles the matter.

Nick, naturally, steadfastly ignores them.

***

There are times, particularly when the lads are visiting, that Harry almost seems like his old self (Nick refuses to think normal because he doesn’t want to consider it _wrong_ if Harry never completely returns to that person). Nick isn’t sure if it’s purely because the three of them bring so much life into the place, or if Harry’s just better at hiding it from them, for their sakes; either way something like joy still bubbles in Nick’s stomach at the sight.

It gives him hope.

The first few times he heard Harry laugh again had made Nick laugh in return out of shocked delight. It was like the flat instantly had some life returned to it. It’s still a sound which is probably far too high on Nick’s list of favourite noises ever (possibly edging out even the klaxon).

Their lives aren’t a silent existence anymore. It’s not all leaping around and karaoke either, but it’s steadily improving.

Nick likes to believe (although he admits he’s potentially a touch biased) that what had started as a straightforward distraction technique, or a way to express his pleasure whenever Harry made some sort of step forward, and had turned into his own personal mission, was at least partly responsible.

It was ages ago that Nick had noticed just how little Harry believed in himself. That kid had so much faith in everyone else on the planet, loved and trusted and was just _good_ , but he couldn’t see himself for anything outside of his relationships to others. He was always Harry of _HarryandLouis_ or _HarryfromOneDirection._ He was never just _Harry_. And it might’ve been one of his more profound moments realising that, but Nick figured that maybe he could do what he could to convince Harry just how much more than that he was.

So he drops dumb things into their conversations. He’s 98.6% certain that Harry knows he’s up to something with his little _Harry Styles, the guy who_ comments, but he’s also pretty sure he doesn’t really know why Nick does it. He’d probably have kicked Nick out if he had, Nick thinks; Harry may not mind being taken care of, being looked out for, but he has never been able to stand anyone coddling him – and that might be what he’d take this as.

Fortunately for Nick, that hasn’t happened, and it seems to have at least had the effect that Harry smiles more days than not when Nick throws out a “Harry Styles; the man I am definitely going to blame in my autobiography for making me fat and diabetic – seriously _what is in these cupcakes?!_ ”

A couple weeks ago Harry had even responded with a (completely false) claim of his own.

“Nick Grimshaw; total twat.”

“Oi, I’m sure your lovely mother didn’t raise you to speak like that.”

“Well pretty sure _yours_ didn’t raise you to steal people’s beanies, either.”

_Actually, I think she might be sort of proud of me this time round_ , Nick can’t help but think as he lets Harry snatch his beanie back off him and ram it grumpily back onto his head.

***

When Nick first came to stay with Harry, he couldn’t play any music without Harry flinching or leaving the room.

After a few weeks, Nick would play Fearne’s show softly in the kitchen as he fetched the two of them lunch (or whatever he could find that vaguely resembled food).

Close to two months and things were starting to improve measurably and not just by the barely discernible increments that only Nick could see. The flat wasn’t silent and if it wasn’t a bad day, the radio was usually on as constant background noise.

Sometime around the four month mark since Louis’ death, Nick walked into the flat where Harry was already up and making pancakes in sweatpants and one of Nick’s t-shirts which was too big for him. Not only that but as Harry turned around to grin at Nick, Nick realised he was humming along to the Mumford & Sons song playing from Harry’s laptop. Nick really, really wanted to hug Harry right then; instead he brushed at a bit of flour on Harry’s cheek with his thumb and swiped a pancake from the plate of those already cooked, managing to burn both his fingers and his mouth in the process.

“Patience is a virtue, Nicholas.”

“Cheeky sod.”

After six months, Nick sometimes gets home to hear the sound of Harry singing resonating from the bathroom. It’s a sound Nick didn’t realise how much he missed until he heard it once more. Not every day was good, but they outnumbered the bad. 

Niall comes over once or twice a week with his guitar slung over his shoulder and a movie and pizza balanced in his other hand. Harry listens more than he participates, but his smile is present more often than it’s absent, and Niall’s clear voice carries enough joy for the both of them.

Harry ventures out in the world again. Not terribly often, and usually not by himself, but he does it. He drags Nick with him to Liam and Zayn’s housewarming and Nick doesn’t think Harry’s slips from his face once; his eyes are sparkling and his laugh bounces around the room more than once and Nick knows that no bit of this is merely a show for his friends.

Eight months. Louis’ room is packed up and One Direction are officially disbanded. The two things aren’t necessarily related, but Nick has them linked together in his mind. 

The statement is made by the boys themselves this time, and is really just a formality; only the most diehard of fans still held any hope of a return at that point. 

Jay comes down a fortnight later to help Harry pack up the room one weekend and leaves with a car load of boxes containing all but a couple of possessions Harry had clasped tightly in his hands before tucking them carefully into a drawer in his dresser; a photo of the two of them which has been doodled over with Sharpie; a broken pair of glasses; a silver chain with a pendant in the shape of a bird. Nick mostly leaves them to it; he doesn’t want to intrude on something so obviously personal and which he really doesn’t feel he should be privy to. Harry’s quiet and red eyed when Nick comes back with a curry for them on Sunday night, but it only takes a couple days before the sadness straining Harry’s features disappears once more.

The nightmares have stayed away for over a month now.

It’s an insignificant day a few weeks after Nick properly, officially ( _finally_ , his friends tell him) moves in with Harry; which really just translates to putting his own place up on the market and getting rid of all the junk he had no idea he’d accumulated over the years. It’s been nearly a year since Nick really moved in.

They’re doing something stupidly domestic like arguing over who should wash and who should dry the dishes ( _“Why don’t you just have a dishwasher anyway?” “They use electricity which is bad for the environment” “You take thirty minute showers!” “Do you_ know _how long it takes to get shampoo through these curls?”_ ) when Nick gets fed up and scuffs his socked feet out to the lounge and flicks through the iPod plugged into the speakers. The opening bars of _Don’t You Worry Child_ fill the room as Harry stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, eyeing Nick sceptically.

“What’re you doing, Grimmy?”

“C’mere. Swedish House Mafia. We’re dancing it out.”

Harry takes a couple steps into the room.

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Dancing it out. I saw it on Grey’s Anatomy once. If Meredith and Christina do it, it must work.”

Harry stops in his tracks and just stares at Nick for a second, as if trying to figure out if he’s _actually_ being serious. Nick’s already bouncing along on the balls of his feet, arms swinging lightly at his sides, and he doesn’t really care if he looks like an idiot because it’s only Harry after all, but he does break into a grin when Harry rolls his eyes and takes the hand Nick offers to start jumping in a vague semblance of a dance around the room.

They both scream along with the lyrics as it reaches the chorus and by the end of the song they’re both red faced and sweaty from dancing like complete and utter goons for the entirety.

Nick lets out a breathless laugh.

“Well fuck me, Harry Styles, the only guy who’s ever forgotten how to dance. That or I’ve actually forgotten just how shit you are.”

It comes as naturally as breathing now; Nick could probably have stopped some time ago, but there’s something familiar where he just does it out of habit without even thinking now. Harry’s never really pulled him up on it either, so it’s just sort of become one of those things they do.

Harry shakes his curls out of his face (and then finger combs them right back to where they started) and takes a step closer so that he’s kind of right in Nick’s space as a Bastille song starts up around them.

“Harry Styles, who found out that Nick Grimshaw looks like a chimpanzee having a seizure when he dances – given the space – and kissed him anyway.”

Lips press gently to mould against Nick’s and Nick responds automatically, but he hasn’t even had enough time to realise what’s going on (and freak out appropriately) before Harry’s pulled back with a full smile which highlights the dimples Nick’s always had trouble resisting the temptation to poke a pencil into (he doesn’t know why either).

“Um. What was that?”

Harry’s smile only flickers the most miniscule amount as he shrugs a shoulder.

“A thank-you. For everything.”

Nick’s mind is racing.

“Okay.”

“And. Well. I think it’s something that’s been coming on for quite a while. I just didn’t really know how to do it.”

_It has?_ Nick had all but given up on anything ever happening between the two of them. He’d already announced his resignation to being the old man that forever lusted after his spring chicken of a friend to anyone that’d listen to him months ago.

“Okay.”

“And I didn’t want to do anything before I was certain. Not like…last time. I didn’t want this to be a rebound thing for me.” Harry rushed the words out as if it was something he’d practiced, and didn’t want to be interrupted through. Seeing as Nick’s brain was still short circuiting a bit, he really needn’t have worried.

“Okay.”

Harry looked at him with an eyebrow slightly raised.

“I’m going to kiss you again now.”

“Okay.”

This time the kiss was sweeter, slightly more certain after Nick hadn’t completely rejected Harry, but still not pushing too hard or fast since Nick was clearly still trying to catch up a bit.

Nick pulls back after a moment, when he realises something which must be terribly important to his brain since he’s breaking off kissing Harry but,

“You know, I really should kick you out for talking about yourself in the third person; it’s my flat too now, I have that right-”

“Shut up, Nick.”

He’s almost certain that he’s going to have a serious freak-out in the near future, and that it isn’t nearly as simple as Harry wants to make it, but Nick lets himself fall back into the kiss for now.

_Okay._

***

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY AGAIN.
> 
> feel free to leave your death threats and claims of satan-hood in the comments (or alternatively say nice things - i know it's a stretch but hey its worth a shot x)


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